


A Leniency Most Welcome

by thejabberwock



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Forgiveness, M/M, Reunion Sex, Reunions, first person POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-12
Updated: 2017-06-12
Packaged: 2018-11-13 06:51:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11179353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thejabberwock/pseuds/thejabberwock
Summary: Holmes has come home. After more than a year of believing him dead, my dear Holmes has returned.





	A Leniency Most Welcome

I fear my recollection of the following events will not meet my usual standard. I am far too emotional. Holmes has come home. After more than a year of believing him dead, my dear Holmes has returned.

It was April of 1886. I had stayed on in our rooms after Holmes died, pressured by Mrs. Hudson to do so, or so I told myself when the decision was made. Truthfully, I did not wish to leave. It was easy to rationalise the decision, of course, Baker Street being so near my practice.

And if I took to sleeping in Holmes' bedroom instead of my own, that was neither here nor there. Mrs. Hudson certainly never commented.

She had just quietly cleared away the dinner service that fateful night, having given up months ago in her urgings that I needed to eat. No more did she tut that she had taken in my trousers as far as she was able, nor did she intimate that my grief ought to have run its course.

She simply smiled with the sad expression which she wore in permanence and took my uneaten dinner away.

I did not move from the table when she left the room. It seemed a great distance to the chairs by the fire, and I was weary from a sleepless night.

It was not unusual for me to dream of Holmes during that wretched year. Though, admittedly, I perhaps should have realised that my most recent dream was prophetic.

I had dreamt I found him in a little shack in the mountains. We had argued a little, and kissed a great deal more.

I had dreamt of sleeping in his arms and when I woke alone in Holmes' bed, I wept. It had seemed impossibly real, and I admit I was quite shaken. I did not return to bed, instead choosing to sit in Holmes' chair by the fire, his violin clasped close to my breast.

I was still not recovered by the time Mrs. Hudson cleared the table that night. I could hear her footsteps on the stairs. There was a knock at the front door, and I sighed. I dearly hoped the visitor would be for Mrs. Hudson. I had no wish to see anyone.

I sprang up though when her scream pierced the air, marred only by the noisy clatter of the dinner tray crashing to the floor.

"Mrs. Hudson?" I cried in alarm as I dashed out of the sitting room. When I reached the top of the stairs, I could see her lying prone on the floor, a filthy vagrant crouched over her. "Move away from her!" I said in my sternest voice as I hurried down the stairs, sparing a moment's wish that I had thought to bring my revolver.

And then the vagrant lifted his head, and I insist to this day, that my heart stopped for a moment. Within the dirtied cowl covering the vagrant's head, grey eyes gazed up at me. Eyes that were as familiar as they are dear.

I halted where I stood in the middle of the staircase, my fingers fumbling as I tried to catch the railing. The apparition—for that is what I believed it to be—stood, a look of alarm upon his dirty face as he stepped over Mrs. Hudson and bounded up the stairs. He took my arm in a firm grip, which is the only reason I did not topple down those stairs.

"Holmes?" I whispered. "It cannot be…"

"It is," he said quietly. "It is me. I apologise, I should not have—"

"Holmes?" I echoed faintly, for it was impossible. And then at a louder volume, I sputtered, "But… you are dead!"

"No," he said quickly. He took my other arm and turned me to face him fully. "I—"

I confess that I forgot myself then, and whatever my friend was about to say, never emerged. I touched his face; my fingers were trembling. "Holmes… can it be?" I breathed. "Is it really you?"

His voice shook, a novelty onto itself as he murmured, "Yes, my dear fellow, it is."

I could not look away from him, so sweet was the sight. I had believed I would never again see his face. My thumb caressed his cheek and I think I might have kissed him right there in full view of the open door if he had not covered my hand with his own and said quietly, "Mrs. Hudson."

I honestly do not know how I turned away from him. His words did not spark the worry that they should have. Poor Mrs. Hudson was still unconscious on the floor, but my mind was not with her. "I am not an apparition," Holmes said, his voice taking on a firmer edge. "You are quite sane. I will explain everything as soon as we are alone."

I nodded dumbly and allowed my hand to fall. He squeezed my arm and we went down the stairs together to revive our landlady. It was Holmes who roused her. I was occupied in my staring. I could not take my eyes from him, not as he patted Mrs. Holmes' cheek, and then spoke softly as she sputtered and nearly swooned again.

I did manage to gather sense enough to help her stand, and to assist Holmes in escorting her to her kitchen, where she sat heavily in one of the chairs and stared at Holmes with wide eyes.

"I do not believe it," she said shakily. "I simply do not believe it."

"It is a complicated tale," he said, including me in his address, "but I do assure you that I am not a figment of your imagination."

He would say no more than that, citing the need for caution. Had we been alone, I think I would have pressed for more, perhaps I might have demanded it. I contributed nothing to the conversation, however. I was hardly even aware of it, and was quite surprised to find myself alone in the kitchen with Holmes some moments later.

"Watson?"

I blinked at him, still unsure whether I found myself in dream or reality. "Where is Mrs. Hudson?" I finally asked.

"She went to lie down," he explained. "Perhaps you would wish to do the same?"

I could only shake my head. If this was a dream, it was the most vivid I had ever had.

"If you have no objections," Holmes went on hesitantly, "I should like to explain."

My tongue did not seem to be working properly, for I could only nod.

"I could not explain to Mrs. Hudson," said he. "You, however, are intimately involved in this particular explanation."

"I… am?"

His voice was soft as he answered, "As you have been in every decision I have made in the past four years."

I had nothing to say to that. For three of those years we had been quite a bit more than colleagues. But for the last, I had believed him dead.

"I do not understand," I began, and it was an effort to keep my voice steady.

"I will explain," he promised quietly. "Though I do think it is best done in private."

He indicated I should precede him, which I did. And when we stepped into the sitting room upstairs, I ignored all the questions, all the things I wished to say and gripped his arms, needing to be certain he was real. He blinked at me, his lashes fluttering as I studied him.

My voice caught when I spoke, "I never thought I would see you again."

"I know—"

"How can this be?" I did not allow him to answer. My senses were slowly returning and I asked anxiously, "Are you hurt? Have you been ill?"

I could see his features better now. Beneath the soot, his skin was sallow, his face leaner than when I had last seen him. "You do not look well, Holmes," I insisted when he only shook his head. "Tell me what happened. I found no trace of you at the falls. I assumed you had fallen. I told the authorities—"

"My dear fellow," he interrupted gently, "do please calm yourself. It is not your fault, I assure you. Let us sit before you work yourself into a state."

"A state?" I echoed faintly as I allowed him to lead me to my chair, and then I watched him cross the room, his steps just as sure as they had always been as he poured a large measure of brandy into a glass. "Holmes, I do not understand this. You were dead."

I accepted the glass. He sat opposite me and leaned forward in his chair as he had done so many times before, and again I wondered if an apparition had flown through the door. He smiled a little and shook his head. "I am quite real. You have touched me, John."

I nodded wordlessly, because what else was there to do? Holmes had returned! And he was sitting in front of me, just as if he had never left. "You must explain this," I implored, leaning forward now as well. "It has been longer than a year, and you have been silent. Were you imprisoned?"

"John," he said my name, and it was his halting manner which alarmed me. I reached across the space between our chairs and took his hand.

"Whatever has happened, Holmes," I said quietly, "you must believe you may trust me."

"I have never doubted that," said he. He gave my hand a squeeze, but I did not release him. I found I could not. "It is a complicated story, and one which will likely anger you—"

"How can it anger me?" I asked, already shaking my head in disbelief. "You have returned, however unlikely it may be. I feel nothing but joy."

"You may wish to retract that statement in a moment," he murmured. He took a breath whilst I stared at him in some confusion. "I wished you to believe me dead," he said quietly.

It took a full minute before I was able to echo a stunned, "You wished… But, Holmes,  _why,_?"

"If you will allow me, I can explain. At least, in part."

The part to which he referred was to do with Moriarty, and I nodded in understanding when he explained that his nemesis had intended to kill him. This was no surprise. I was a bit more startled when he said, "You were to be next." And then in a voice filled with tension, "I could not allow that to happen."

"But, Holmes—"

"Please allow me to finish, and then you may do with me as you will." He smiled, but there was no happiness in the expression. A knot began to form in my stomach, one which would only grow as the hours went on. It certainly did as Holmes explained his scheme to me; that he had set out to destroy those he believed would seek revenge if they knew he still lived. "They had no reason to harm you if they believed I had died with Moriarty," he explained.

"I do understand that," I finally spoke. "But why could you not tell me you were alive? Surely, you did not believe I would give you away?"

"Never intentionally," he said quickly. "But I could not risk it, do you see? If anyone had suspected that I still lived, you would have been in danger. I have lived in secret this past year, never revealing myself. It was necessary to keep up the illusion." He was speaking quickly now. "I fully intended to return once I had despatched the last of those who would threaten you."

"And… you have done that?" I asked, slowly for I was still dumbfounded. Why had he not told me? I could have helped. Had I not done everything he had ever asked of me?

"Yes. It was not in the way I had expected, however. I had a letter," said he, "from an unusual source, and it was with great ease that I found the remaining operatives."

"An unusual source?" I repeated. "Can you not elaborate?"

"He did not wish to be identified. It should suffice, I believe, to term him an intimate friend and leave it there."

I stared at him. An intimate friend? When had Holmes ever termed anyone in that way? Even me, when he had every reason to do so.

"I see," was all I found to say in reply.

"His knowledge was most helpful. I believe I would have been away for quite a bit longer had he not intervened." There was a strange note to his voice, an awe which was foreign upon his lips.

"Well," I said as steadily as I could manage, "it is fortunate he was able to help."

"Yes," Holmes agreed. His gaze sharpened, and that subject was laid to rest. "I should like to apologise," he said quietly. "If there had been another way to protect you, please believe that I would have employed it."

"I do believe you." My words were honest. Holmes has always done as he thinks best, though I will admit he does not always give just thought to the effect his actions may have on others. It was never more evident to me than it was then. "I am very pleased to see you," said I quietly.

Again, his smile was vacant. "I am relieved to hear it."

He was studying me, as he has done so often in the past, but there was a weariness in his expression that I did not like. "You must rest, Holmes," I told him. "Are you hungry? Shall I fetch something from the pantry?"

"Thank you, no."

"A bath, perhaps? Is there anything I might do for you?" I pressed when he shook his head.

"I would wish only to sit here with you," he murmured. He frowned as soon as the words emerged, and then he straightened his posture. "Perhaps you would like to hear a recounting of my travels? I have had one or two adventures which you will likely find worthy of your pen."

"Certainly." I stood and set my untouched drink aside. "Allow me to fetch my notebook."

I could feel his gaze upon me as I went to my desk. My notebooks had not been opened in many mouths, and when I reached for one, my throat began to ache.

"You have lost a considerable amount of weight."

I did not turn immediately. I swallowed so that I might speak in my natural voice. And when I turned back to face him, I said evenly, "So have you."

"A small amount," he disagreed. "It is certainly less noticeable."

"It is weight you can ill afford to lose."

He did not reply.

"Where have you been?" I asked in what I hoped was a pleasant voice as I crossed back to my chair.

"Before I received the letter from… my friend, I had been living in a small shanty in the Ural Mountains."

"To what end?"

I admit that I scarcely heard his answer, or the tales that followed. My mind was occupied, my eyes fixed upon his person. Even with the evidence before me, I could not believe it. I had longed for this—something I believed I would never have.

Holmes had returned to me, and yet we were as strangers again.

We had hardly touched, and although I could not fault him for pulling away when we had been in full view of the street, we were alone here. The curtains were drawn, and there was nothing to stop us from embracing.

I wanted to, oh how dearly I wished to hold him, to show him how much I had missed him. But he was sat in his chair, eyes faraway as he spoke. There had been little warmth in his voice, none at all in his smile.

He had left me in that wretched place, had allowed me to believe he was dead. He had planned it! I did, of course, understand his motives. I would have gone to extraordinary lengths if the positions had been reversed. I would have given my very life to save his—I still would.

I should like to believe, however, that I would not have chosen his path. To deliberately cause pain to Holmes would be impossible. But if he believed this was his only choice, I would not rebuke him. Even after his revelations, my trust in Holmes is absolute.

"John?"

I blushed to find my friend gazing at me with concern. "I beg your pardon," I murmured. "Do please continue."

"The tale will wait until morning," said he. "You are tired."

"It is early," I told him. It was, but more than that, I did not wish to retire. But then anxiously, I said, "You must be tired?"

"No. Though I would not object to clean clothes." His smile was filled with regret. "I have brought nothing with me."

"Your clothes are still here," I said, standing quickly. "We have removed nothing. I found…" I faltered here, for my voice was betraying me. I cleared my throat. "It was perhaps foolish."

Holmes glanced away. "Fortunate for me, however."

"Yes," I agreed with only the barest tremor.

Holmes' lips were in a tight, thin line when he stood, but only for an instant before his features were smooth once more. "Excuse me," he said. "I will only be a moment."

He went into the bedroom, and I hovered near my chair, uncertain how to conduct myself. Before he left, I would have joined him, to sit upon the bed whilst he dressed. I could see him from where I stood; he had not closed the door. He was standing in the middle of the room, frowning as he looked about.

Feeling another rush of embarrassment, I moved to the doorway. "I apologise," I said quickly. "I should have warned you."

"You have been sleeping in my room," he announced in a low voice before turning to face me.

"My apologies," I rushed to repeat. "It was inappropriate."

"Nonsense," he murmured. "You believed I was dead. As the sole occupant of these rooms, you have every right to sleep here."

"Not any longer," I stuttered, for I had not missed his use of the present tense. "You have returned, and this room is yours again, Holmes, of course it is."

I did not understand the expression upon his face. It was gone before I might study it. "Thank you," said he. "You are too kind, Watson."

"I am simply pleased that you are home," I said quietly. "I… have only a few items to remove."

"I should not like to turn you out, if you are accustomed to sleeping here."

I paused in my reach toward my dressing gown. He was not looking at me, instead pouring water into the basin. I did not reply. How could I when I had no hope of interpreting his words?

I should have been able to. I had spent many years learning my Holmes. A man who was rarely tentative, even in our more intimate moments. And this, as I stood mute by the door, was something I had watched him do many times. I was mesmerised by his hands as they dipped a cloth into the water, captivated as he washed the grime from his face.

I swallowed several times when his true face was revealed, clean and as beautiful as the day I met him. He was a great deal thinner than I had initially realised, and it alarmed me greatly. But I did not speak, too captivated was I when he set his cloak aside and began to unbutton his tattered shirt.

He did not acknowledge me as he did this. I was rooted to the spot, too anxious to move as I might have otherwise done. I wanted to touch him as his pale skin was revealed. It would have been a balm to run my fingers along his narrow back, to feel his ribs for myself. I could see them in evermore alarming detail.

I was unable to still my tongue, "Holmes…"

I had moved without thought as well. He turned to me, bare from the waist up. His fingers were clenched white around his shirt, and it seemed it took great effort to relax them. "Meals have been scarce," he told me, and I was not surprised that he had read the concern in my face. "But I assure you, I am not ill. I will certainly fill out a little with…" But there he stopped and returned his attention to his shirt, which he laid carefully upon the chair. "I will have access to regular meals."

I wanted to inquire further as to the state of his health, but I was muddled. I do not like to admit to such a state, but it is nevertheless true. I watched him as he found a nightshirt and pulled it over his head. He removed his trousers swiftly afterward and sat upon the bed.

He had said he did not wish to turn me out. I hoped it was more than consideration. Even if he had found comfort in the arms of another, he had returned here. He had returned to me.

It was with that reassuring thought that I changed into my night clothes. His back was turned to me, but I imagined he had known my fingers would fumble and he simply wished to allow me a moment to collect myself.

When I sat upon the bed, he slid under the blankets. Feeling as though it was our first night together, I matched his movements before reaching out to turn down the lamp. I could hear his uneven breaths in the darkness as I stared at the shadows dancing in lazy patterns across the ceiling.

I wanted to reach for him. But my arms would not obey. I could not stand the thought that he had not trusted me. And if there had been another…

But I would not object when he reached for me. I would go to him when he needed me, as I always had. I would wait for him to reach for me.

I waited in vain.

-o-

When I woke a several hours later, I was alone.

Just as I had been since he died.

I closed my eyes as grief brought tears to my eyes. It had been a dream, no matter how real he had felt to me. It was not the first time I had experienced so vivid a dream of my beloved.

My eyes flew open upon hearing a sound I had not heard in over a year. No one else would have dared touch Holmes' violin.

Pausing only long enough to gather my dressing gown around me, I made haste for the sitting room. And there he was, my dear Holmes, in front of the window, his back to me as he played in his nightshirt and dressing gown.

I grasped for the nearest solid surface to steady myself. It happened to be Holmes' desk, and I dislodged a book in my outburst.

Holmes turned, and immediately ceased to play.

"Watson," he said in a tone of utmost concern, "you look as though you've seen a ghost." He set his violin aside to cross the room.

"Have I?" I asked with a voice unsteady. "Holmes, are you really here? I was afraid you were a figment of my imagination."

"No," he said quietly as he took me by the elbow and led me to my chair. "I am quite real, I assure you."

He placed a glass in my hand and I put it to my lips without a glance. The brandy burned my throat, but I hardly noticed. The events of mere hours ago were quickly remembered, the wave of grief assuaged. Not completely, for I could not forget that Holmes had remained on his side of the bed.

I took another sip of the brandy as I watched him in silence. My brow crumpled with concern as he bent to retrieve his violin. There was stiffness in his movements, one I recognised easily.

"You were hurt," I said as I lowered my glass.

"It is an old wound—" But even as he said it, pain flared across his face and I was on my feet in the next moment.

He tensed, but affected an air of nonchalance. "There is no need for concern. I was attacked—"

"Attacked! Did you receive medical attention?" I reached out. "May I…"

I fell back at his look of alarm. That expression disappeared quickly as well, and he nodded, already removing his dressing gown. "Certainly. If you wish."

He opened his nightshirt before I could reply. Whatever I might have said was stolen from my lungs as I looked upon his wound, an angry gash drawn down his left side, hidden from me earlier by his arm.

When I touched him, it was not a healer's hand I used, but a lover's caress. I felt his indrawn breath, and saw his lungs contract beneath my fingers. To see the evidence of his travails… I was as surely wounded as he.

When my fingers slid too close to the broken skin, he flinched and I froze. I raised my head. He was staring at me, his lips pinched tightly together. I withdrew my hand.

"The sutures are inadequate," I said softly.

"Yes."

I stepped back before I might make a fool of myself. "I will fetch my Gladstone."

He was motionless beneath my ministrations, absolutely silent as I clipped the old sutures. I was unable to quiet the tremor as I asked, "Who did this?"

There was a pause before he replied, "I could not risk anyone taking note of me."

I halted and looked up at him with incredulous eyes. "You sewed your own wound?"

"It is hardly the first time," he pointed out. I pursed my lips, but did not comment. I had scolded him before for his foolishness, but such words felt out of place now. I continued my work in silence, and tried to pretend it did not hurt to breathe. He had returned, and yet it felt as though he was still gone.

He was holding himself so rigidly, I wondered if his muscles would seize. Why had he asked me to stay in his bed if he could no longer bear my touch?

I took care with the cleaning and with the sutures, having no wish to cause him further pain. When I finished, I covered the wound with fresh bandages. As soon as I was finished, he stepped away to slip his nightshirt back over his shoulder, words of gratitude nearly inaudible.

I repacked my Gladstone slowly, my eyes intent upon my work. I did not want him to see the grief which made my face crumple. But with that chore done, I did not know where to go.

I told myself that he needed time to acclimate. I tried to convince myself that this was true.

"You best try to sleep again, Holmes," I said, not looking up. "Sleep will encourage your wounds to heal."

"I believe sleep will prove little use in that regard."

My head came up at the low words, but Holmes had returned to his violin and was no longer looking at me.

"Do not let me keep you from your own rest, Watson."

I had no wish to return alone to his bed. "Perhaps you would like company?" I ventured. And still he did not turn to me.

"There is no need. My mind is occupied at the moment."

My chest burned with the rejection. "I am still tired," I finally spoke and it was with great effort that I accomplished it. "Mrs. Hudson… may find it odd if I do not reoccupy my room."

"I daresay."

His fingers were plucking the violin's strings, his eyes fixed upon a point outside the window. I could not see his expression from where I stood but I did imagine it was as remote as his voice.

I did not mean to put a question in my voice when I said, "I shall remove my clothes in the morning."

"If you wish," said he. I did not wish. But it seemed that my own needs were no longer of any consequence to him.

My entire person ached with the pain of that realisation. I did not know why I expected anything else. He had left me, had allowed me to believe him dead; had found comfort in the arms of another. The weight of it was crushing. I turned away. "Very well," I said, no longer caring how broken I sounded. "Good night then, Holmes."

He did not reply, which only served to pain me further. I turned away. My hand found the door's knob with difficulty and though my eyes were stinging with wet, I paused, drawn by an irresistible need to see him once more. For a year, he had been gone from my life. I did not want to leave him.

And so, I turned my head

My heart stuttered in my chest when I saw him. He had left the window for the settee. He was curled in on himself, as one might when in abject pain. Or misery.

My feet moved toward him without thought, with an instinctive need to protect that which is so dear. "Holmes," I whispered when I neared. "Holmes? Whatever is the matter? Is it your wound?"

I could see his expression now, the emptiness in his eyes. And when he spoke, it was a whisper of one who is alone, and near madness. "In attempting to save you, I have destroyed myself."

My own pain was still too great to comprehend his meaning. "It will heal," I promised him softly.

He closed his eyes. "I do not care if does not. I would welcome an infection."

"Holmes," I said, scandalised, as I knelt before him, "you mustn't say such a thing."

"I cannot see why not," he said and his voice had grown quite bitter. "How can it matter what I say now? I have lost you."

I stared at him, dumbfounded. "Holmes," I breathed, "I am here. You have lost nothing."

He laughed, the sound so humourless it made my heart ache. "I have no right to expect your forgiveness, John, but please do not torment me."

"Torment you?" I echoed. "Whatever do you mean?"

I was dismayed to see his hands tremble before he tucked them between his knees and turned his head away. "I knew when I chose this path that it would be my ruin. I wanted only to assure myself that you were well. I intended to leave as soon as I had."

"Leave?" I echoed with dismay. "You must not."

Very softly he said, "I certainly did not believe that we would sleep in the same bed, as if nothing had happened. It was only my own weakness which led us there. I knew there could be no forgiveness."

"There is no need for it," I said, and I did not care how roughly my voice emerged. "I know that you did it to protect me. I do understand—"

He finally turned to me, and I could see the faint glint of anger in his eyes. "There is little point to this—"

"Little point to what?" I cried, at my breaking point at last. "You must explain yourself, Holmes, for I do not understand you at all. If you wish to leave, why do you insist that I should for forgive you? If it is absolution you wish—"

"Don't be a fool, Watson."

I stood. I was shaking, though I could not have named all of the emotions coursing through me just then. "I have been a fool," I said in the barest whisper. "I was a fool to believe you ever cared for me at all—"

I tried to turn away, wanting to leave before I broke down entirely, but Holmes sprang to his feet and took my arm.

"Release me, I beg you," I whispered. But he did not.

His voice was a raw breath across my ear, his body close but not quite touching. "I will not allow you to believe that. Whatever else you believe, you must not believe that. I am dearly sorry I hurt you, you cannot know, John. I will never forgive myself."

He released me, but did not step back. "I have loved you every day of my absence," said he. "I will continue to do so for the remainder of my days." His fingertips ghosted down my arm before he stepped back. "I will pack my bags—" His voice broke. "—and be gone by morning."

I did not move. I could hardly breathe. But when he turned away, I moved without thought, my fingers reaching before I decided to do it. They curled around his thin arm as I croaked, "Wait…"

Holmes still loved me. There could be no doubt of it. He would not say it otherwise. He had, in fact, never said those particular words. I had never needed them before. His other words, his very actions had always been enough.

When he turned, my stomach twisted. His eyes were haunted. I have never seen that look upon my friend's face, and I never wish to again.

"Holmes, please," I finally whispered when I found my voice. "I wish you would remain here."

There was no change in his expression as he nodded. "If it will please you," he agreed without inflection.

"Will it not please you?" I did not mean to sound so plaintive, but I could not help it. "Have you changed so much?"

For a moment, the pain heightened in his eyes, but then they were dull again. "I will stay as long as you wish."

"Forever is a very long time, Holmes. Do you truly wish to promise me forever?"

His brow knitted, which was a welcome change from the porcelain visage he had adopted. "Eventually, then," he spoke softly, a thread of new tension in his tone. "Eventually, you will forgive me."

"Holmes," I whispered, my fingers tightening where they held him. "There is no need for forgiveness. I spoke the truth. Now that you have returned, I feel only joy."

His fingers found mine, crushing with such fervor that I feared they might bruise me. "How can you?" he demanded shakily. "After a betrayal such as this?"

I reached out a tentative hand to caress his cheek. "You have not betrayed me. You chose to protect me. I daresay you have suffered as much as I."

"John…" There was a helplessness to his voice, a plea and I smiled sadly.

I pressed my thumb along his cheekbone and said as bravely as I was able, "And if you needed the comfort of another whilst you were away, I will not hold that against you."

"The comfort of another?" Holmes repeated. "Whatever do you mean?"

I gestured vaguely. "Your… intimate friend?"

He stared at me.

"Your letter," I said with a question in my words. "The one which gave you the information you needed to return home."

"My dear John," he breathed and my hand was dislodged so that he might cradle my chin in his fingers, "I assure you, I thought of no other whilst I was away."

It was instantaneous, the relief which unfurled in my breast. I did not trust my voice, but it was imperative that I ask, "You will stay?"

"Yes," he answered simply and then he pinched his fingers so that they were just shy of painful at my chin and pressed his lips to mine. I reacted as well I might, without decorum and with only instinct to guide me. With my arms encircling him, I opened my lips and welcomed him home.

We were very near the bedroom, and perhaps we moved as one, the steps from memory until the mattress touched the hollows of my knees and I sat without thinking, pulling him with me so that we should not separate.

His fingers wound through my hair. I sighed at the pleasure of it, for I had never thought to feel it again.

"I missed you so, Holmes," I breathed between our deep kisses. His palm tightened against my skull.

"I am truly sorry," he whispered.

"You must not…" His kisses were rendering my mind blank. "… I understand…"

All of his choices had been for me, he had said. Even when he had believed they would destroy him. They had destroyed me as well. "It does not matter now," I told him. None of it mattered.

His mouth moved from mine to press feathered kisses along my jaw. I must have felt some insecurity still, for I asked, "How do you know this person? If I may be so bold?"

He did not stop his ministrations. "I have known him all my life, this particular man."

"He was a childhood friend?"

"You might say that."

"You are being very coy, Holmes."

He touched my cheek and pulled back to study my face. "I apologise. It is important that his identify remain a secret. Will you be able to accept that?"

"Yes," I told him without hesitation. I am capable of accepting a great deal when it comes to Holmes.

"I assure you, however, that I did not meet him," he continued. "His letter was the extent of our contact. You are the only man who has ever stirred me in that way, John."

There was anxiety in his eyes.

I smiled and put my hand over his. "I believe you, my love," I told him softly. "I have never had reason to doubt."

A wry smile twisted his features, and he shifted out of my reach. "Perhaps not in regard to this."

"I admit," I said cautiously, "I was hurt that you did not trust me with your scheme, although I understand why you could not."

The sadness in his face twisted like a knife in my chest. When he did not speak, I said softly, "I cannot stand to see you unhappy for a moment longer. I love you. You know that I do."

He closed his eyes. "Do you, John? Even now?"

I took his face between my hands and pressed soft kisses to his eyelids. "Always, my dear man. Always."

He came alive then, his grey eyes suddenly bright as he gathered me up and buried his face into my neck. "I have missed you," he breathed.

"Then show me."

And he did. Words drifted over my skin as his lips traced my face, and my chest, "There were days when I thought I would not go on, but then I would think of you and I found the strength. I could not rest until there was no one left to harm you."

There were other words, ones which cooled my ardour, but necessary all the same. "I can see each rib," said he, tracing with his fingertips. The grief had filled his eyes once more. "You have not been taking care of yourself."

I might have smiled at the admonishment if the reasons for my lack of personal care were not so painful. "I might say the same of you, Holmes."

"No," he said swiftly when I reached to push up his nightshirt. His face softened, for mine must have fallen. He stroked my jaw lightly. "I should like to give you pleasure," said he. "What do you wish?"

"What I wish," said I, "is to touch you as I please. I have no wish to punish you."

And for once, I deduced correctly, although it was unintentional. His face stiffened, and he turned away. "I shall not," I told him in the same quiet, steady tone. "Penance shall not be done in this bed. Nor in any other place."

His features were still, his body tense but he did not object when I reached for him again. With his nightshirt rucked up, I drew a thumb alongside the bandage covering his newly sutured skin. His ribs were even more prominent as he pulled in a breath. "I wish I could have helped you," I said softly.

"I could not," he began, but I shushed him with a gentle kiss to his hip.

"I know," I assured him. "I love you even more for your efforts to protect me."

"You have always been too lenient with me."

"It is not lenience," I murmured as I pressed kisses in the soft hair below his navel. "Lift your hips."

For once, he did not argue and I set to work divesting him of his underclothes. Next his nightshirt, which left his hair in the most beautiful disarray. He held his breath the entire time.

"Did I hurt you?" I asked anxiously once he was bare before me.

"No," he whispered. "Never."

I looked him over, at his taut muscles, the rise and fall of each breath. Gently, so as not to distress his wound, I set myself beside him and blew a breath over his slowly hardening prick.

" _John_." His fingers tugged at my hair. I could not help but smile.

"I have missed this as well," said I.

"Will you finish undressing?" he asked. I smiled and obliged, enjoying the gleam of desire in his eyes. He reached for me, and mindful of his injury, I shifted so that he could take me in hand. It was not to be a frenzied journey to completion that night, but a languid exploration.

And when I was curled into his side, his nose buried in my hair, I felt nothing but contentment.

I had already closed my eyes when his soft voice roused me, "John?"

I caressed his chest and hummed in query.

His words were muffled in my hair, "I am not a man who makes promises easily. But should you wish… to extract one from me…"

I lifted my head and immediately slid my fingers over the creases in his forehead. "A promise?" I echoed with a fond smile. "Whatever could it be?"

Smiling, he pressed his thumb to my lower lip. "You know I do not like to be teased, John."

"You like it very well," I corrected. "You only pretend you do not."

He did not deny it. His hand settled at the small of my back, a comforting weight.

"If you wish to make a promise," I told him in a more serious tone, "it shall be of your own volition."

His forehead resisted my efforts to soothe. "You would ask nothing of me?"

"Have I ever?"

He studied me with a frown. "You may ask anything of me. You have always had that right."

"There was never any need," I told him. "Just as there is no need to ask anything of you now. Not when you are already willing to offer it."

A familiar glint of approval lit his eyes. "You are terribly devious, my dear fellow."

"It is a necessity with you, Holmes." And with that, I braced my fingers on his chest and waited.

The hand at my back pressed me closer. "I chose the only course I could," said he. "At the risk of rousing your jealousy—" At this, he smiled to match my disapproving frown. "—the letter from my acquaintance made me realise that it was nevertheless the wrong choice. I believe I can promise that I will not keep anything so important from you again."

Because I could not speak, I kissed his shoulder tenderly as I resettled myself in his arms. "You are too lenient, John," he said very softly. His lips brushed my hair. "I could not be more grateful for it."

"It is love, Holmes," I whispered in reply. "And you shall always have it."


End file.
